Like Ivory in the Soil
by Rabbitprint
Summary: Spoilers for Onikiri's history and the Minamoto clan, set pre-Mt. Oe. Minor Onikiri/Yorimitsu. Onikiri gives his first lie to his master. It is his master's right.


_Drabble short for bookwormtiff, prompt: "yorimitsu onikiri, a softer mood"_

* * *

He gives his first lie to his master. It is his master's right. Like the other blades which the Minamoto have brought to life - whether by love of the sword, or those loved _by_ the sword - Onikiri can offer up perfect obedience. He bows when expected, and kills when commanded by the slightest glance. He serves through an ever-increasing count of bodies in his wake.

Such prowess is only to be expected of the Minamoto's tools. Meeting basic expectations is shallow cause for praise.

Yet, there are a few things which belong uniquely to him, like minute imperfections in his metal which add up to a lighter swing, or heavier point. Which foods he enjoys the most. Which the least. The incense notes which strike him as particularly appealing. His preference in blankets, how he turns his head automatically towards the scent of alcohol, which musical instruments he finds the most soothing. He is still in the process of discovering them all - these strange, unreasonable fondnesses and dislikes - and it is a surprise each time that there is anything to _find_ within him, with his _tsukumogami_ heart.

His body is human now. His soul has transformed into something else entirely, faceted like a mountain or a vast forest instead, spreading out in tangled paths inside his mind that he must wander through on his own. His own satisfaction is a mystery, one he does not understand until he is in the middle of experiencing it - of tasting it, seeing it, feeling silk slipping over the palm of his hand, watching in bewildered fascination at his own pleasure. Sensations he cannot identify tangle beneath his feet, rising like broken roots with no evidence of which tree spawned them. The shape of what he has become feels like a skull being unearthed gradually from dusty soil, the crests of its eyeridges coming to light under his curious fingers as they wipe away the grime, exposing hidden secrets to the cruelty of fresh air.

He has an impression of that as well - of ivory bones lying pale in dark soil - but he does not know who was dead, or who was doing the unearthing.

Having no other use for it, Onikiri gives his own newness to the Minamoto clan, offering the imprinting of his memories as more fodder for their glory: his first kill with human hands, his first meal in congratulations for a successful raid. The first mouthful of tea he drank, when Yorimitsu was still recovering from the mountain attack that had summoned Onikiri into being. The cold taste of barley had nearly choked him; he had swallowed too fast, not knowing how to make his throat work properly. The first injury to his newborn flesh, and how Onikiri had stared at the blood seeping through the cloth of his _hakama_, trickling over his skin like a fat spider skittering down the back of his leg. His first, astonished laugh.

His first word, Onikiri is certain, was Yorimitsu's name - in his heart, if not from his mouth.

* * *

He offers up his first lie during an afternoon in summer, at the height of the hotter months when they are between campaigns, and the skirmishes are all political. Equally bloodthirsty. Worse payoffs. The war coffers must be filled and accounted for; scouts must redraw their maps, marking the movements of human clans alongside yōkai nests. Yorimitsu must report back on his victories and justify why the Minamoto should fund him for more. It is talking, all of it. Far too much talking.

Onikiri does not allow his guard to slack. Peace offers prime opportunities for assassinations - the _best_ opportunities, for attempts originating from within the house. As convenient as it would be to murder a rival on the battlefield, killing Yorimitsu out of turn through a well-placed arrow or poison would only lose whichever battle he helmed, and so - ironically - Yorimitsu is safest when he is on the field. There, Onikiri can be at his side, defending his master from spell and claw.

In tearooms, blades are less welcome.

Thankfully, there are lulls in even these campaigns. No one has tried to assault Yorimitsu in his sleep this year, not even that twice-removed uncle of his with the shaggy eyebrows, who continually puffs like a bellows with the barely-bridled urge to disparage Yorimitsu's honor. Yorimitsu has commented a few times disdainfully about how the clan disappoints him in this, too - but Onikiri has seen the exhaustion tightening the corners of his master's eyes, unable to show the smallest fraction of weakness, just in case the gap becomes wide enough to slip a knife into.

Today, they are resting in one of Yorimitsu's private rooms, while the clan elders gather and pretend that reclaiming some scrap of farmland from the east is worth more than another assault on Mt. Ōe. It has rained every night for the past few days, humidity slithering into every crevice of home and skin. The air is halfway to becoming an ocean; Onikiri could drown standing up.

Yorimitsu himself sits sprawled between the room and the outer walkway, comfortable with sitting precisely along the screen groove, his back against the _shoji's_ frame. Both his legs intersect the sunbeam which dribbles over the _tatami_. Unlike other members of his clan, Yorimitsu is comfortable with liminality, conquering the uncertainty of his location by straddling it and conquering both sides; he has a tendency to break the _shōji_ this way as well, which Onikiri feels is poetically apt. A reed dangles over his lap from where he must have been playing with one of the stray cats. Thankfully, there's no sign of the pests now.

For his own part, Onikiri is seated properly at one of the tables, working through a few basic reports on food supplies; his blades are at his side. He's glad to be out of the sunlight. Even though he moved his morning practice sessions to earlier in the day, there's a layer of sweat drying stale on his skin and clothes. This is another thing for Onikiri to learn about his new flesh body - to learn, and to loathe. Swords should not stink.

He is quietly brooding over the indignities of needing baths, and nearly misses his master's question. "Do you dream, Onikiri?"

Onikiri jerks his gaze up, wide-eyed in his surprise - but before he can answer, Yorimitsu is already doing it for him. "No," the man says dismissively. "Of course you wouldn't. You don't have anything to dream _with._"

A simple accusation, and equally matter-of-fact. _Arrogant_, Yorimitsu's detractors might say, or _contemptuous_ \- but Onikiri has listened to his master carefully enough by now to know that the disdain in Yorimitsu's voice is not meant for him. Another anger broils beneath.

Even so, the resignation laced throughout that tone catches Onikiri's attention for the strangeness of it. Something about the truth must be spurring Yorimitsu to regret - like a muscle that has healed improperly, twinging in pain years later whenever it is pulled upon, even if there was no escaping the initial injury.

This regret is an enemy that Onikiri does not know, except that he has somehow failed to guard against it.

_Always be loyal_, Yorimitsu had commanded him. The words have been branded inside Onikiri's chest; even _thinking_ about breaching that trust incites pain along his flesh, searing his ribs. Lying is not loyalty.

But - for his master - Onikiri will sully himself. He will allow himself to be made filthy with his own tongue, and beg forgiveness later.

"Sometimes, my lord," he claims. "I do."

The words have their intended effect: they draw Yorimitsu's interest back up again, a hook in his mind that the man heeds, if only out of curiosity for who holds the other end. "_Do_ you," he rumbles, but then drops his head back lazily against the _shoji_ frame, and for a moment, Onikiri fears that his deception has been so easily exposed. "Tell me _more._"

Onikiri fumbles immediately; it is his first lie, he is impractical, he did not think it all the way through. Already he wants to confess his shame and press his face to the _tatami_ to beg for an apology. At the same time, he cannot bear to disappoint his master with boring tales of battlefields. Onikiri is better than any common soldier; he must perform accordingly.

"There's a river in the mountains," he says at last, pawing through the jumble of his thoughts for something unique, something in the assembly of his body that no other Minamoto shikigami might possess. "Sometimes I - dream of it."

_Dream_, he is careful to say. Not _remember._

"Oh?" Yorimitsu laces his fingers in his lap, arms lax, though his gaze never leaves Onikiri's face. "How do you know exactly where it is? Maybe you're actually in a valley somewhere. Dreams can be tricky like that, after all."

"It's in the mountains." The surety of it compels Onikiri's mouth to speak for him, so confidently that it is a moment before he realizes the offense of contradicting his master. He winces, gutted by chagrin. "I mean - it could be, my lord. A mountain stream in a farming valley. That would not be impossible, in a dream."

But Yorimitsu merely pulls one of his hands free again to wave it lazily in the air, seemingly amused by Onikiri's own willingness to redefine his thoughts. "Go on."

"The water is cold, like runoff." That had been one cue for the location, but not all. Onikiri does not know why the conviction is so strong inside him, only that he will know the place in an instant if he ever stumbles upon it. The smell of the earth is different: colder, denser. The forest is as thick as a weasel's pelt, trees growing in place for generations without being touched by axe or saw, keeping to their own silences with no interest for humankind. "But the sun is warm, and bright enough that the glare is blinding. Everything is too hot or too cold."

He pauses there, following along behind the tug of broken colors which swirl around this particular impression, congealing only partway into images. "There are tiny fish in the water, too small to eat. I see them swimming around my feet, but I can never seem to catch them. They're silver. Yellow. I don't know what kind they are." The current swirls, kicking up silt. His toes are small, like those of a young boy. "I keep thinking that I need to catch one before I go home, because I want to show it to someone. But I don't have anything I could carry it in - only my hands, and I don't know why it matters so much."

Yorimitsu has tilted his head further back by now, the sharpness of his interest hidden away again - hidden or dismissed, Onikiri cannot tell. "Is it a good dream?"

"It is pleasant enough. Although, it _is_ nonsensical," Onikiri admits, a hint of his own frustration leaking through. The simplicity of the scene makes it sound like a child's fantasy; it's the kind of joy that an infant would share, splashing and playing in the mud. He does not know why he would carry that kind of memory, except that one of the youngest Minamoto must have carried him to such a location - and for them to wander there without a guard makes no sense at all.

Luckily enough, Yorimitsu does not question that aspect. "Is that it, then? Fishing at a river?" His master rolls his shoulders and then stretches his arms up, arching his back in a long line that exposes his throat; Onikiri can dimly hear the pop as a bone goes back into place, muscles gradually releasing their tension. "Not even a decent fight or two?"

Onikiri waits for the landscape to offer up anything else; it burbles, docile and lacking all distinction. Fish nibble at his thoughts, questing for something soft to ingest. Tiny mouths pluck at his skin. Finally, he dares to ask: "Is it a place you brought me when I was still merely a sword, my lord?"

He holds his breath, waiting.

Yorimitsu shrugs, as if the effort of either confirmation or denial is beneath him. "_Boring_," he declares, and the indifference is crushing. "I'd expect something that simple-minded from one of my cousins, and even _they've_ outgrown it. Is there anything else you might entertain me with?"

The urge to satisfy his master is overwhelming; it makes Onikiri restless enough to push further. He digs through his thoughts, seeking out any hint of something different, something other than the routines of battle and victory - something to delight his master, a gift of himself to Yorimitsu that no other shikigami could match.

Finally, another shape stirs in the back of his mind, like an eel abandoned in a vat of dark vinegar, rippling the surface with its coiling length even as it smothers to death. "I'm in the forest," he begins, the pace of ragged breathing coming back to him even as he speaks. _Still in the mountains_, he nearly adds, but holds back this time; he does not want to seem biased. He can feel the tightness in his lungs, a ghost of past exhaustions. "Hunting something for sport. It's night, and the moon is waning, nearly empty. It rained recently - the forest is still wet, and it slips under my feet when I run."

"Better." Yorimitsu's voice has already warmed. He settles back, bringing up one knee to prop an arm against it; his knuckles form pale triangles against the deep blue of his _hakama_. The praise heats Onikiri's cheeks. "What sort of quarry are you after? Do you know?"

"No." Another lie. Onikiri can hear the sporadic crashing of something light through the underbrush, struggling not to trip on a root in the unfamiliar terrain and break an ankle. Two-legged prey. No deer or rabbit would be so sluggish. "Even though I don't have a lantern, I can still see the forest around me for some reason. Everything _smells_ that much stronger, too. As if... I am an animal of some kind, and this is my home."

"A beast," Yorimitsu corrects. His eyes are shadowed; his hand has lifted like a mask across his mouth now, fingers wrapped around his own expression. "As if you were a _beast._"

It's a peculiar emphasis: sharp and sneering. From what Onikiri can see, Yorimitsu's brow has furrowed, narrowing his gaze. He is no longer looking at Onikiri - his attention is somewhere else entirely, as if a gulf to the Underworld has opened in the floor, and he is waiting for the first crawling ghost to slither out.

Having no other choice but to try and force his way through that displeasure, Onikiri struggles to continue. "Somehow, I can tell that what I'm chasing is trying to escape downhill. I keep trying to circle around them, to force them back up. They're losing ground. Any moment now, I'll be able to see them - "

"No." Yorimitsu cuts him off again, this time more decisively. The man drops his hand, and with it his tension; the careful amusement that comes over his face has the same deliberate poise as if he were facing a clan elder. He directs his faint smile back towards Onikiri, though his mouth is tight in one corner, turning it lopsided and hard. "Tell me a different one instead."

A second time that did not satisfy: a second discontent. Onikiri draws in a deep breath, feeling the air stretch his lungs as he attempts to reassess. If that night had come from one of Yorimitsu's hunts, perhaps his master had lost the quarry, and being reminded of it only adds to his vexation. That is the only explanation which makes any sense. If not his master, than another in the clan. A sword like Onikiri could hardly have gone exploring on its own.

Other blades, like Yoto, might be haunted by remnants of the days before their forging, detritus of human souls that have not yet sloughed away. Not Onikiri. He is a blade. He is pure.

This, then: a simpler moment, one that he had experienced only briefly by accident. He had been sent to fetch some records out of storage - personal references from some clansman onmyōji who had died decades ago, but whose notes had been deemed worthy enough for Yorimitsu to study - and had wandered into storeroom after storeroom, too confident to ask for directions. The last building he had tried had been on the outskirts of the clan's estate, so neglected that he'd had to force the door open. Stale air had washed over him - along with a sudden lurch of unease that had fluttered like a thousand moths in migration, their soft, powdery wings stroking his throat.

"There's a room," he voices slowly. Sluggish thoughts part like silken drapes around his fingers, crusted with dust and the smell of rot. The murk envelopes him. He looks closer. "Everything is dusty, as if everything around me has been forgotten, even by its owners. There are... people there with me, crouched between the shelves. None of them have weapons. I think there is fear in that room," he adds, frowning, wondering at the emotion which hangs like a second shroud over his eyes, clouding each face into a blurred mask. "I think there is... something outside."

Yorimitsu says something; the noise is vague, soft as forest moss against Onikiri's cheek, as distorted as if his head is being held underwater and he has forgotten how to drown. He no longer notices the summer heat. His world has been replaced by the half-light of a single lantern, by the splayed shadow of a hand held protectively against the paper, fingers turned into claws by distorted silhouette. The air has the sharp reek of urine and terror. Someone weeps softly, hiccuping sobs smothered against their palms. Onikiri breathes in deeply; he can taste the spiderwebs on his tongue. If he tries just a little bit harder, perhaps he can pull more answers out of the gloom, like ivory seeds of bones embedded in the soil, coming to light at last.

"I think... I am _afraid._"

He's so distracted that he doesn't register Yorimitsu's hand on his face as anything other than a distant warmth; he can feel the calloused roughness of his master's skin, but cannot question the presence of it. Yorimitsu presses on him, turns his jaw. Onikiri watches the world rotate underneath his master's control, slowly tilting, until his vision is suddenly filled with Yorimitsu's gaze - shattering his trance, sending terror pulsing through him in a fresh wave that turns his body cold. If he has erred so grievously that he must be called back to attention in such a manner, then Onikiri has forgotten all decorum; he has placed his own needs above his master, and there is nothing more unforgivable.

Then - as Onikiri's still struggling to reel himself back in, disoriented by being yanked sharply back to the present - Yorimitsu leans down and kisses him.

There is nothing tender about it. Yorimitsu's mouth is demanding, devouring all of Onikiri's focus and still ravenous for more. Onikiri's surprised inhalation nearly becomes a yelp; he's already trying to open his mouth to the pressure of Yorimitsu's lips, clumsily fitting himself back into a body that he's still a stranger to wearing.

He yields to it once the initial shock passes, eagerly giving himself over to the feeling of his master seizing him; it is a different pleasure in this form, he imagines, lacking a sword's proper _tsuba_ and _tsuka_. Instead, Yorimitsu guides him with a palm on the back of his head, fingers braced in his scalp. Onikiri's weight tips backwards, tilted askew as he arches in a futile effort to meet Yorimitsu, who seems intent on pressing him back towards the ground; instinctively, Onikiri reaches up and grasps for anything to help steady himself, finding his knuckles winding into Yorimitsu's robes in a desperate bid for balance. He can feel his master's hand upon his shoulder, pinning them together. He can feel his own muscles relaxing into submission.

This, too, is a memory Onikiri will hold above all others: a first that he gives willingly, rejoicing for it.

He does not know if he has any other memories of kissing someone before. The only thing that matters is that he will never want to kiss anyone else again.

But Yorimitsu breaks away before Onikiri's ready for it to end, inhaling deeply - only to sigh the air back out again. "Forget it," he announces, abrupt. "Such nightmares are pointless."

Onikiri has no reason not to agree. The question slips out anyway. "What _was_ it?" He is a sword; the fear cannot have belonged to him. It must have radiated from his wielder, or another in the room - and if it was Yorimitsu, then Onikiri _must_ know, or else he will not be doing his job properly. He turns his head up to his master trustingly, his eyes wide with uncertainty as he begs for the answer. "Who was there?"

In a moment, there is a march of emotions across his master's face, crawling like centipedes across his eyes. "Yōkai," is all he eventually replies, short and toneless. "Yōkai were involved. You don't need to know anything more."

Yet Yorimitsu's hand lingers on Onikiri's shoulder, fingertips tracing small, thoughtful circles on the fabric. "It seems I have been remiss in keeping you properly stimulated," he declares. The heaviness of his touch increases for a moment, bearing down; then it vanishes entirely, Yorimitsu lifting his arm away in dismissal of his own proximity. "I tire of the elders and all their pointless _babbling_, anyway. We'll go to one of the country estates tomorrow, west of Heian-kyo, where there are good trails for riding and plenty of shade. The archers there can put on a display for us - my brother practices with them, sometimes. One of my cousins in residence is particularly skilled with incense games. You should learn from him. There's more than enough there to fill your head with other matters... more _suitable_ ones, for a weapon of your rank."

The reprieve is like a blessing; Onikiri nearly rises to his feet in gratitude. "Your kindness is overwhelming, my lord," he blurts. "But - is it proper to spend the clan's resources on a meager blade such as myself?"

Yorimitsu's mouth widens in a smirk. "Consider it another order, Onikiri," he murmurs - and dips down again suddenly, sleeves whispering, ducking forward until Onikiri can feel the heat of his master's breath caressing his ear. Yorimitsu's lips drift against his skin. "_Dream better dreams._"

The ultimatum is both encouraging and utterly terrifying. Onikiri does not even know how to begin. He already fights half-blind; his fingers feel too short, his skull too light. It is madness to try controlling a part of himself that he does not even know the shape of yet.

"I will, my lord," he promises fervently anyway, hands tightening on his knees. "There will be nothing in my thoughts save for the victories of the Minamoto clan. I _swear_ it."

But the vow does not seem to reassure his master; Yorimitsu pulls away with the thinnest of smiles, padding slowly back over to the edge of the _tatami_ where it meets the wood of the _shōji_. This time, he sits with his face turned towards the yards, away from Onikiri, leaning firmly to one side of the room's boundaries - the side which Onikiri is not part of.

The expectation is clear. Onikiri must succeed. Whether or not such things are impossible does not matter. The command has been given; Onikiri will obey. He will dredge reasons out of rumors. He will purge what does not fit. The river, the hunt, the room - all those scattered impressions must be plowed over and redefined as simpler times, days when Onikiri's owners must have carried him on all manner of careless errands. Piece by piece, Onikiri will stitch fresh meaning to every part of himself, until there is no part of his new body that does not bear a Minamoto memory atop it, like ink tattooed across his body to mark him as an item for trade.

He refuses to allow _this_ \- of all things - to be his first failure.

Once that is done, there will be no more reason to wonder. Onikiri's lie will become truth. When - not _if_ \- his first real dream comes, he will wake from it smiling. He will never look back.

Like the debris of unknown corpses in warehouse rooms, the past is as worthless as the unnamed dead: dusty, forgotten, and harmless.


End file.
